


Nourish

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone needs to be touched sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nourish

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _Erik is touch starved_ at 1st Class kink meme on Live Journal.

He’s looking over the books in the library; the spines turned out like in a store, some old and dusty, others new and bright. He runs a finger over each one – smiling at the eclectic mix of titles.

The house is creaky and popping and groaning like old houses are wont to be; Erik’s alone, though, dressed in the same clothing he’s worn since they left Virginia (Charles has told him they’ll go shop in the morning; he doesn’t care, but he realizes he probably does need something other than one turtleneck and one pair of pants). One book stands out and he pulls it from the shelf; _The Once and Future King_ by T. H. White. He opens it carefully, the clock on the mantel ticking once, twice, and he rapidly becomes engrossed in the story he’s only heard his father tell him. Books weren’t part of Erik’s youth, much, but his parents had known a bit about the king called Arthur.

“My favorite,” Charles says from behind him; Erik’s eyebrows pop up and down once, his teeth flashing in the gloom of the large room. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

A laugh; Charles stands next to him, the warmth of the arm that touches his radiating to Erik as they remain comfortably silent, but after a moment Erik moves to his right a bit. Charles leans over him, turns the pages and points to a section he loves (The Ill Made Knight, he says, you must read this one), hanging over Erik, casually touching him, smiling talking laughing and Erik sidles away again – but he looks at Charles, watches the other man’s comfort, and after a moment, smiles back.

*

He’s fixing toast; bread, a luxury, something he can’t get enough of; his third morning at the mansion, and although it’s six am, Raven joins him in the kitchen. She’s wearing a robe and her blond haired, brown eyed face, and Erik cocks his head at her, gesturing with the fork he’s holding at the toaster. She nods and he sets up a serving for her as well.

The other children are raucous and truth be told somewhat annoying (although Erik can appreciate Hank’s purpose) but Raven…she’s…he doesn’t want to say _different_ because that is a cliché and she seems to be worth more than that.

“Why do you hide?”

She looks up from the paper she’s reading; a frown creasing her perfect forehead. “You know why.” She stares at him, without worry or shame, and he narrows his eyes at her. Strange; she’s the only one that speaks to him without some fear in their voice. Other than Charles, of course.

“If I had your gift,” he starts, but she waves a hand, _interrupting_ him. His mouth gapes, astonished. “I know, Erik. But you don’t, and you don’t live here,” she points to her body, her brain. “Society is afraid of people like me. Or would be if they even knew,” she sighs. “I do this to protect myself, and Charles, really. And the toast is ready.” Her voice carries a hint of sadness that Erik finds he wants to wipe from her reality; how can she possibly be protecting Charles by doing what she’s doing? He narrows his eyes, wants to ask her, but instead he carries their plates to the table. His is piled high (eight pieces; he thanks God for the gift of this bounty, quietly, inside; a God he’s not sure exists, but nevertheless, a pattern he’s used to completing) hers a bit more realistic. It’s her turn to raise an eyebrow at his plate, but she doesn’t say anything, merely asks for the butter and jam.

They eat in silence; he will try again with her later. She’s _different_ perfection in his eyes, and while Charles seems to think everyone else really needs to practice at their powers, he’s not mentioned Raven to Erik at all.

She reminds him of himself, God help her. And so strange for him to even consider that concept – he wants to know more. Odd, and terrifying. And why should he care?

He watches her eat, her eyes changing to yellow as she does, some of her concentration slipping. He pushes piece after piece into his mouth, shutting his lids once as the fresh butter and sweet jam fill his senses and distracts him from his thoughts on Raven and her mutation.

He opens them as she touches his hand, covering it quickly with her own. “Thanks for the breakfast.”

She stands and dumps her dishes in the sink, smiles at him, and leaves the kitchen. He can hear the sound of her voice – and Charles’ – as she ascends the stairs, their friendly bickering familiar and yet something he’s not used to hearing. He touches the back of his hand, the one she’d covered with hers, and is still staring it when Charles enters the kitchen, smiling and cheerful and _Good Morning, Erik._

*

His run was calming; being alone and breathing by _himself_ is something Erik is used to, needs, craves. But as he sees Charles waiting for him at the steps to the mansion’s back door, bats reeling over his head (the night comes fast here) as they chase mosquitoes, he finds a smile creeping over his sweaty face and slows to a stop in front of the other man.

“Good run?”

“It’s quiet here,” he answers, and runs a hand through his lank hair – he’s still sweating despite the chilly night and it slides into his face, annoyingly. He turns to Charles and it falls again.

Before he can move to push it back Charles’ hand is there, tucking it back gently, smiling, talking as though nothing _incredible_ has just happened. Erik jerks back, his own hand flying to the side of his head, but Charles has moved on, is still talking (good lord the man will not shut up) but stops when he realizes Erik’s not following him.

“Come inside, Erik, before the mosquitoes – or perhaps the bats,” he regards the creatures with something akin to horror, “carry you off.” He jogs to the door and leaves it open for Erik to come with him.

Erik can feel the heat in his hair, the strands blowing slowly in the dying wind (the chill goose bumping his skin), can feel Charles’ touch there, can imagine more if he only closes his eyes.

A flash of

 _bright pain, a lash, things shoved in his mouth to hold his lips apart, to keep him from crying, weak, tortured, innocence stolen by those so much stronger, hands on his flesh, manipulating, forcing_

He shudders, but blinks as Charles sticks his head out of the open door. “Come on,” he waves again. “I’ve got a game set up. And I want to know what you thought of the White book.” He smiles, huge and genuine and waits.

This time, Erik can recall the warmth and the touch as something not so dangerous or strange. He licks his lips, and touches his hair, wraps his fingers in the mass of it briefly. The wind picks up and he shivers again, but not from fear.

He follows the smile and the heart that beats so loudly with kindness into the house.

*

The children still carry fear around him (save Raven; she’s his project and he doesn’t for the life of him know why) but Charles, oh no. Charles will say anything, do anything, has no worry or terror and doesn’t think anything but calm and trust and _there is so much more to you, my friend._

“I believe it. I believe in you, and your possibility.”

Erik’s had too much wine and he is angry suddenly, the chess board falling aside as he knocks it over with his hand as he stands, face flushed. Yet his voice is controlled, precise, his words carefully chosen, his body backing away from Charles, no matter the _I want him to touch me_ feeling he can’t seem to shut down.

Any brush from the other man, any touch of his arm, a stray sweep of his fingers over Erik’s shoulder, a clap of the hand on his back – Erik feels as though he’s drowning again, the water lapping at his skin, cold and icy and alone and he _hates_ it. He hates it and yet he chose it, the reason long known to him, fear and death and the goal what he knows (knew) and now here is this man who will touch him without pain and with only good intent and support and the water is suddenly warm and a place he can see the future from, a cradle that rocks him and soothes and –

“What do you know about me?”

He has asked Charles this question more than once, and the same answer always comes.

“Don’t say it, Charles.”

The full lips close, and the smaller man is there in front of him, his eyes shining in the warm dark of the den, his face tight with worry and _is that ire?_ The clock on the mantel, the one sound Erik can tolerate for long periods of time, clicks loudly and distractingly and Erik is about to back away from Charles when the other man reaches out and slides his hands over the angular bones at the sides of Erik’s face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, fingers settling over the tops of Erik’s ears.

“I can hear you, see you, feel you no matter where you are in this world,” Charles murmurs, voice low and intense and Erik stiffens, but the hands _oh my God his hands on my skin_ move a bit, tiny circles really, thumbs drawing a line over and over on his cheekbones and Erik is frozen with want and fear and yet he finds his own hands tentatively reaching for Charles’ shoulder, settling there like a tiny bird, light and petrified but still, wanting, wanting.

He swallows, his Adam ’s apple bobbing with the strain, but he does not back down, for when he gets an idea or realizes - _fuck_. He wants this, wants the touch and Charles does not let go.

“Yes,” Erik answers, although a question was not asked. Charles smiles briefly, flitting, gentle, and he leans closer, touching his cheek to Erik’s, although he has to rise on tip toe to reach. The wine they’ve drunk heats Erik’s blood – although he’s sure it’s more than that – and he shivers again, once, but grips at Charles’ shoulders harder, drawing him in, closer, touch, _yes_.

Charles pulls back a bit and switches sides; his left cheek to Erik’s right and Erik sighs imperceptibly, grips harder, lets Charles do whatever he’s going to do. His gut quivers with residual _give me your hand, little Erik_ but he shoves that down, away, to the lockbox of stories and memories he won’t share with anyone. Not even Charles – not yet. Maybe not ever, but he can decide that later. Although when he realizes he laughs, a small bitter sound, biting it off as it washes over the pink shell of Charles’ ear.

 _What do you know about me?_

The answer, as always.

“Everything,” Charles whispers, and feather soft – a kiss, light, irrevocable, a dance over Erik’s senses that has him reeling, dizzy, breathless, but only for a moment, and then he’s drowning but oh, this time he wants it, wants the rush of the water, the inability to see, to feel anything but the waves _back and forth_ and this man’s arms around him, pulling him down the bottomless sea of whatever it is that they are together or can be.

He pulls away after a moment; he wants more, can see that Charles wants more, can hear the other man’s desire pulsing with his brainwaves. Charles isn’t hiding anything or trying not to project – Erik’s body is taut and drawn up and he allows Charles to run hands over his face, as though the other man were blind. They come together again, hips aligned, thighs touching, the fabric between them too much and yet a barrier Erik needs.

“What do you know about me that you’ve not taken?” The words are soft, spoken with tenderness, but still Charles stiffens and closes his eyes.

“You gave it to me the moment I found you,” he answers, words soft, but conviction at their core.

One heartbeat, two, three.

Erik leans forward and catches Charles’ mouth with his, a small groan of Charles’ name escaping that he feeds to the other man, as quiet as he’s ever been, still in his movements, sure, precise. Everything has a purpose; touch is trust, and for once in his life – he will take something _he_ wants, no matter the consequences.

He knows the danger that lies there, but he is confident in his strength (Magneto, Raven had named him, master of magnetism) and again he shoves the fear of his past aside – with great effort, his chest heaving and heart pounding. The clock ticks again, and he can feel the  
 _Hand on his, Raven smiling at him_

 _Charles’ arm, the heat_

 _Fingers on his shoulder, smile in his eyes, a beckoning wave, the want_

 _Danger._

The bookshelf holds them up, and Erik drowns this time, as he’d meant to do before.


End file.
